Killing the Beasts (25 page)

Turning right at York Street, they were soon passing the Athenaeum, a glorious building constructed in the Venetian Gothic style at the height of Manchester's domination of the cotton industry. Tom slowed down, pointing out the Ionic columns supporting a cathedral-like dome. 'I especially like the brickwork; the red colouring has led to the term “Slaughterhouse Gothic”. Manchester has got some of the best examples you'll find anywhere.'

Austen looked at his watch. 'Fascinating. And now it's a pub.'

His dismissive tone picked at Tom's frayed nerves. 'Not any old pub. It's increasingly the pre-match choice of Manchester City's firm. Go in there on a Saturday with a red shirt on and you'll probably come back out with a broken glass stuck in your face.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Not you personally. 'Tom smiled. 'I mean Man U fans in general. Though a southern accent wouldn't do you any favours either.'

Austen's eyes narrowed but he couldn't tell if it was a genuine piece of advice or a piss-take.

'Anyway,' said Tom, emotions alternating between a fluttery elation at having got away with a jibe at his client and heart-sinking dread at the prospect of reaching Victoria station. 'Here we are at the top of King Street.'

They looked down the long, straight road lined with designer stores. In front of each plate glass window were stone blocks and posts. Designed to look like seats, they were actually placed there to stop ram raiders.

'So where's Victoria from here? It's almost lunchtime,' said Austen.

'You're right,' said Tom quickly. 'Why don't we grab a bite now before everywhere fills up?'

Austen looked around uncertainly. 'Well...' 'It's on me. What do you prefer? Traditional pub or contemporary bar?'

'Traditional, I suppose.'

'Do you drink bitter?' asked Tom, stepping into Mr Thomas's Chop House. Austen nodded.

'Two pints of Landlord, please.'

After walking the length of the narrow bar, they entered the seating area at the back of the pub, dark wood tables glowing faintly in the light shining through ancient-looking panes of frosted glass. A young man in a shirt and bow tie showed them across the black and white tiled floor to a table.

After turning his mobile off, Tom opened his menu and looked down the list of dishes. 'I don't know why I even look – I always go for their home-made corned beef hash.'

Austen continued looking at his menu. 'Well, given the name of this place, I had better go for the pork chops.'

After ordering their meals, Tom excused himself and headed downstairs for the toilets. Looking at his watch he saw, to his dismay, that it was only midday. Even if he stretched lunch out to a couple of hours they'd still have over an hour to get to Victoria station, and it was now only a five-minute walk away. He stood just inside the door, wondering what to do. The sound of water trickling into a cistern made him want to urinate, so he stood in front of the urinal. But his stomach muscles felt too tight and, apart from a few measly drips, his bladder refused to empty.

Looking down, he saw the usual lumps of discarded chewing gum in the bowl and his gag reaction hit him without warning. Walking backwards and zipping himself up at the same time, he retreated into the only cubicle, sat down and felt inside the pocket of his jacket for the powder. Unable to find it, he stood up and ferreted through the rest of his pockets before realizing that he'd left it in the top drawer of his desk.

He crumpled back down on to the toilet, pressing the tips of his fingers against the back of his neck and rotating them round and round. Erratic surges of panicky emotion were playing with him – acute nervousness, crippling fear and the odd spark of inexplicable elation.

Suddenly he became convinced he was being watched. Fearfully, he looked up at the top of the cubicle. But no one was there. He took several deep breaths and began to follow the advice of the therapist from when he'd become ill a few years before.

One, two, three, four, five, six... his heartbeat began to slow a bit and the feelings of panic eased... seven, eight, nine, ten.

Back in the pub a crush of office workers had appeared and Austen was sitting at the table, looking uncomfortable at being alone.

'Cheers!' said Tom, sitting down and clinking his glass against Austen's. He sucked down over half his pint in one go, abruptly aware of how thirsty he was. Austen was staring at him oddly, and Tom began to feel uncomfortable. Was there a scrap of toilet roll stuck to his forehead? A bogey hanging from his nose? Casually, he brushed the back of his fingers across his nostrils. Now Austen was actually smirking at him. 'Er, Tom – is it a bit too bright in here for you?'

Tom looked up, lips vacillating between an uncertain smile and a trembling grimace. It was a dim pub. What did he mean? 'Sorry?'

Austen tapped the bridge of his nose. 'Your sunglasses. You haven't taken them off yet.'

Relief flooded him and he let out a burst of laughter shrill enough to cause several other diners to look around. 'Totally forgot they were on!' He slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Austen sat there with an expectant look on his face, happy to play the client's role and wait to be entertained.

Needing something to do, Tom fished his cigarettes out. 'Smoke?'

Austen shook his head disapprovingly.

'I'll just squeeze one in before the food arrives.'

He was barely two drags in when the waiter reappeared with their plates. 'Isn't that always the way?' observed Tom, stubbing his cigarette out. Smoke swirled across Austen's food and Tom tried to fan it away with his other hand. Next he unwrapped his knife and fork, knowing his appetite wouldn't stretch further than a few mouthfuls. Gingerly scooping up some mashed potato, he popped it into his mouth and looked at Austen as he sawed through a pork chop with his knife. The layer of white fat between the rind and meat quivered and bulged as the knife pressed down. Tom felt the muscles in his throat start to spasm.

He gulped some beer as Austen put it into his mouth and began to grind with his molars, a frown slowly coming over his face. Eventually he picked up his napkin and said, 'Sorry, can't get my teeth through the rind – too rubbery.' He hooked a forefinger and thumb into his mouth and pulled out a long strip of mangled gristle.

Tom had to look away, the press of conversation at his back getting closer and closer. He kept his eyes averted until he heard Austen place his knife and fork on the plate.

'Very good,' he remarked, unwrapping a stick of X-treme gum and popping it into his mouth. Tom could feel the pinpricks of sweat breaking out on his upper lip as he tried to control his feelings of nausea.

The waiter stepped over. 'Dessert? We have bread and butter pudding on the specials board.'

'Oh, go on then,' said Austen, with a conspiratorial smile. 'You've tempted me.'

Horror struck, Tom watched as Austen plucked the lump of gum from his mouth and dropped it in the ashtray.

He vomited all over the table, gouts of still-foaming beer that flooded Austen's plate, then bounced up, spattering his chest and arms. Even before the spew finished, Tom had lost it. His heart was racing uncontrollably and an overwhelming sense of disaster bore down on him. Gasping for breath, he staggered to his feet. At the other end of the narrow pub sunshine shone through the open door with the promise of fresh air and open space. The source of light became the sole focus of his vision: he had to be out in it at all costs. He began a headlong charge for the door, shouldering other drinkers, knocking drinks from hands. A waiter loomed up in front of him, plates of food balanced in each hand, his silhouette obstructing Tom's view of the door. The heel of Tom's hand connected squarely with the man's chest, and he flew backwards in a shower of chips, peas and gravy-covered slices of meat.

Tom fell out onto the pavement, looked down and saw grey spots on the paving stones under his hands. Gum. He stood up, realizing it dotted the pavement in both directions. Terror now gripping him completely, he ran up King Street, jumping from side to side, taking small steps, then great bounds, desperate to avoid treading on the gum – white fresh blobs, older blackened ones, clusters of it peppering the areas around bins. He veered towards the road but it was there too, embedded in the bumpy surface, a plague from the mouths of the masses.

He kept going, careering round the top of King Street, back past the Athenaeum, sprinting towards Piccadilly Gardens, images of wide lawns filling his head. Bursting out onto the pavement by the Bradford and Bingley, he knocked over a woman and staggered across the tram tracks. An enormous sonic blast cut through him and hydraulic brakes hissed in anger as the approaching tram was forced into an emergency stop.

Two men dressed as giant kangaroos jumped out of his way, one shouting, 'Easy mate!'Tom raced past, the safety of the lawns now less than fifty metres away. Swerving to avoid a bench he finally lost his footing, shoulder connecting heavily with the pavement, rolling over, knees and elbows bouncing off the paving stones.

The stilt walkers had stopped and were looking down at him. The giant inflatable figures nodded and swayed as Tom, regaining his feet, saw the smear of fresh gum stuck to his knee. As the Samba drums continued in the background, he started to tear off his trousers, a hoarse scream coming from his throat. He had kicked one leg free when the first neon-jacketed police officer arrived. Grabbing Tom in a bear hug he began to repeat, 'Calm down sir, calm down sir, calm down sir,' like some religious mantra as his female colleague radioed for a police car.

Stepping out of the Athenaeum, Sly thought there was something familiar about the forlorn-looking figure across the road. Not just the thin build and beaten up clothes that many
Big Issue
sellers seemed to have, but something about his stoop and the way he shifted his weight shyly from foot to foot. As he got nearer the man turned round and finally Sly recognized him: one of the beggars who used to hang around Piccadilly station.

Sly's approach to life was simple – you got ahead by keeping other people down. He'd learned it at an extremely early age. The years of bullying and piss-taking he'd suffered through having ginger hair and goofy teeth only ended when he'd picked out a weaker boy amongst his tormentors and jammed a sharpened pencil into his upper arm.

The action didn't gain him acceptance or friendship, just the respect people gave to the school nutter. It taught him the power of extreme and sudden violence and it was why he still carried a Stanley knife to this day.

So now, as he got closer to the man whose beggings he used to tax, the thought of walking past simply didn't occur. A display of his superiority was needed – something to prove to himself that he was above the other person.

The man had fully turned round now, and seeing someone in smart designer clothes approaching, had immediately begun to say, 'Help the homeless sir, copy of the
Big Issue
?'

Sly stopped and with a sneering smile said, 'Moved up in the world, then?'

His voice made the
Big Issue
seller freeze and, on recognizing Sly, his stoop seemed to become more exaggerated, the posture of someone used to being victimized. Knowing that wasn't the end of the encounter, he said nervously, 'Sly.' No trace of a smile.

'I need some cigarettes; knock us some change, mate.' Sly held out a cupped hand and clamped his jaw on the lump of gum in his mouth. Its flavour was sharp and lemony, like every other packet he'd taken the other week from the garage in Didsbury. Although the taste was novel to begin with, he'd got tired of its sourness and had flogged most of it to a stallholder in the Arndale market. 'Here, I'll swap you for some chuddy.' He spat the lump out onto the other man's disintegrating trainers.

The
Big Issue
seller cast his eyes downwards and said miserably, 'You don't control the pitches around here. Leave me alone.'

Sly got his face up close to the other man's and cocked his head to one side. 'Do you want me to cut you?'

The man stepped back. He was still avoiding eye contact, but defeat was written all over him. 'No.'

'Then give me some money,' Sly hissed.

Resignedly the man reached into an inner pocket and produced three pound coins.

'Is that fucking it?'

'I've only sold three copies. It's everything I've got.'

Sly wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Three copies? With these crowds? I know you're lying, but I'm not going through your stinking coat. I'd probably get fucking lice.'

He plucked the three coins from the man's palm, then produced a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes from his pocket. The man looked at the money, face devoid of any expression.

Slightly irked by the other man's failure to react to his cash, Sly said, 'I'll get the smokes after I've picked up my suit. 'With a mocking smile, he sauntered on down King Street and entered the Armani shop. When the assistant asked if he needed any help, Sly pointed straight to the pale green suit in the window.

Chapter 18

July 2002

The sense of terror only began to subside once they'd fought through the traffic and made it onto the slightly less busy Oxford Road. Sitting in the back seat of the car, Tom shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and whispered, 'Could you turn the fan on, please? It's so hot in here.'

The female officer in the passenger seat immediately did as he asked, then turned round in her seat. 'What's your name, sir?'

The official note in her voice set his nerves off again and the muscles in his throat clamped up. A few minutes later they turned off into the grounds of the Manchester Royal Infirmary, the patrol car driving round to the Accident & Emergency entrance and parking in a bay marked 'Ambulances Only'.

Again the female officer turned round. 'Sir, you're being detained under section 13B of the Mental Health Act. As police officers we're required to take you to a place of safety – which is here. We're going to find a psychiatric nurse to check you over and make sure you're OK. Is all of that clear?'